I Don't Want To Fall Another Moment
by Navona
Summary: Quinn wants to say 'I told you so' because she'd pretty much predicted this the day Santana had dropped out of her freshman year at college in an effort to become a badass guitar-playing rockstar.


**Title: **I Don't Want To Fall Another Moment (into your gravity)

**Fandom: **Glee

**Pairing: **Santana/Quinn

**Rating: **R

**Word count: **9280

**Summary: **Quinn wants to say _I told you so_ because she'd pretty much predicted this the day Santana had dropped out of her freshman year of college in an effort to become a badass guitar-playing rockstar.

**Notes: **Written for Onomatopoetic. Title from Sara Bareilles' song _Gravity. _

It's 11 o'clock on a Thursday night when Quinn opens the door of her apartment and finds Santana there.

"Hey, Q," Santana says easily. There's a duffel bag under one arm, and a guitar under the other. "Mind if I crash here a couple of weeks?"

Quinn lets her in, watches her make up a bed on the couch, and doesn't ask what she's doing here, because they don't do things like that.

"You cut your hair," she remarks instead, and Santana glares up her at from the sleeping bag she's spreading out.

"Yeah, no shit, Q," she snipes. "You noticed."

Quinn shrugs. "It looks better. You looked like a hooker before."

There's a moment, and then Santana breaks into a smirk. "I missed you, Fabray."

Quinn snorts. "Yeah, whatever," she says, but there's a little smile playing at the corners of her lips. "I'm going to bed."

"Uh huh," Santana says disinterestedly, sitting on top of her sleeping bag and picking up the TV remote. "You get the porn channels?"

Quinn rolls her eyes and goes into her bedroom, shutting the door firmly. She doesn't bother hanging around to ask any questions. Santana never answers them, anyway.

Quinn's up and making breakfast before seven o'clock the next morning. She doesn't bother to keep the noise down, but Santana's still passed out on the couch, half of her face pressed unattractively into the cushions, and she doesn't stir while Quinn gets ready for work. Quinn leaves her a note, and an apartment key, and goes.

When she gets home again just before seven, she finds Santana in the kitchen, looking through the fridge.

"What the fuck?" Santana says as a greeting. "What's all this goddamn rabbit shit you have in here? Where's the _real_ food?"

"Some people prefer not to live on burgers and beer," Quinn replies. "Try a carrot stick; it might not kill you." She considers that for a moment, and then adds, "Or maybe it will. So please, eat one."

Santana scowls at her. "We're going out," she announces, heading for the door. "I'm not eating whatever lentils _you_ were planning on having for dinner."

"Don't you think you should change?" Quinn asks, looking her over. "You're wearing short shorts and a T-shirt. It's _December_. In _New York_."

Santana pauses, pursing her lips. "Fine," she sighs, and glowers at her. "Don't look so goddamned triumphant, Fabray. I'm from LA, remember?"

"Uh huh," Quinn says, and goes into her own room to change out of her work clothes.

They end up at a seedy diner around the corner that Quinn's never been to before. The waitress thumps the burgers down on the table as if they've given her a personal grievance, and glares murderously at Quinn when she asks her for a napkin. Santana watches the exchange with amusement.

"Seriously, Q, you are so -,"

"What?" Quinn asks, raising her eyebrows in challenge. "So _what_, S?"

"So _upper class_," Santana finishes. "Your parents would be so proud."

Quinn rolls her eyes, biting into her burger. It's cold. "Shut it, Lopez," she snaps.

"Hey." Santana raises her hands in defense. "I'm just stating facts. You're all high powered shit. You're not used to this." She pauses to lick mustard off of her finger. "How is the lawyer lifestyle working out for you?"

"It's great," Quinn says, narrowing her eyes. "Absolutely fantastic. A dream come true. A total breeze."

"Whoa," Santana says. "Easy, tiger. It's a legitimate question."

Quinn looks at her suspiciously, and then sighs. "Not so great," she admits. "I'm working crazy hours and all I get to do is _paperwork_. The guys treat me like a receptionist."

"Damn," Santana says sympathetically. "Still, at least the pay rocks."

Quinn shrugs in acknowledgement. "What about you," she asks daringly. "Latest band didn't work out?"

"Huh," Santana snorts. "The drummer knocked up the lead singer. Who was fucking _married_ to the bass player. So I got out of there before I got caught up in their shit. The next band I join better not be so goddamned _lame_."

"Oh," Quinn says. She wants to say _I told you so_ because she'd pretty much predicted this the day Santana had dropped out of her freshman year of college in an effort to become a badass guitar-playing rockstar, but she doesn't think it would go down well.

They eat in silence for a while. The teenage guy at the counter stares at Santana, who winks back flirtatiously. He blushes.

"Santana!" Quinn hisses, watching. "That kid is probably fifteen!"

"Yeah?" Santana shrugs. "So what? It's just a wink, Q. I'm not going to go down on him or anything."

"_Santana_!" Quinn repeats furiously, glancing around to see if anybody heard. She shoves the last of her burger in her mouth and stands up. "Come on," she says, hauling Santana to her feet. "We're going home."

"I haven't finished!" Santana protests.

"I don't care," Quinn snaps. "Eat a vegetable for once. See if you melt."

She strides ahead, trusting Santana to follow her. She does.

They spend the rest of the evening in the living room, with Santana watching American Idol while Quinn tries to shut out the noise and concentrate on the paperwork she's trying to finish. There are plenty of questions she wants to ask, but she knows enough not to voice them.

It's been two years since she last saw Santana. They haven't exchanged emails or phone calls, or sent Christmas cards. She hasn't heard a thing either _from_ or _about_ Santana during that whole period of time, and now she's sitting on Quinn's couch watching TV as if they've seen each other every day since kindergarten.

It's weird. It's also kind of nice.

She goes to sleep that night to the sound of canned laughter.

The next morning is a Saturday, and Quinn's planning on sleeping in until at least lunch time, but Santana pushes her bedroom door open at nine o'clock in the morning and says, "You're out of milk."

Quinn groans and turns over, pulling the covers up over her head. "Go 'way," she mumbles. She whines when Santana pulls back the curtains.

"Here," Santana says. "I got you coffee."

Something warm is thrust in front of Quinn's face, and the sweet aroma of coffee makes its way into her nostrils. Quinn cracks an eye open and sees a Starbucks cup in front of her.

"You made a coffee run?" she mutters, her mouth dry. She sits up and reaches for the cup.

"Uh-uh," Santana says, pulling it out of her reach. "You have to get out of bed, Fabray."

"Fuck you," Quinn mumbles, rubbing her eyes. "Gimme the coffee."

Santana laughs. "Quinn Fabray!" she admonishes. "Did you just say the F word?"

Quinn glares. "I hate you."

Santana chuckles, and hands her the cup. Quinn inhales a few mouthfuls, and then blinks.

"What are you doing in here?" she asks, feeling more awake already. "I was asleep."

"I was bored," Santana shrugs. "Don't you want to show me around the city?"

Quinn raises an eyebrow. "Well yeah, because I'm sure you'd _love_ all the art galleries and museums, right?"

"Ha," Santana snorts. "Funny. Can't you take me to meet your friends or something?"

"_No_," Quinn says firmly.

"Why not?" Santana fires, glaring. "Are you ashamed of me?"

Quinn shoots her a look. "Don't you remember what happened the _last_ time you met my friends?"

"Geez, come on," Santana says. "I said I was sorry like a million times already. I didn't _mean_ to get you fired."

Quinn shakes her head. "Just – no, Santana," she says. "Let me go back to sleep."

"Fine," Santana snaps. "I'll see you later, Q."

Santana's gone when she wakes up. The sleeping bag is still spread out on the coach, though, so Quinn pushes it out of the way to settle on the cushions with her book. She gets a whole afternoon – and most of the evening as well – of peace until the door opens again.

"Hey," Santana says, "did you know your neighbors had no idea that you even existed? Half of them thought this apartment was empty."

"Really," Quinn says flatly. She keeps her attention trained on the book.

"I spent some time with Mr Peterson from downstairs," Santana continues, sitting down next to her. "Nice guy. Nice apartment."

Quinn looks up, horrified. "You didn't sleep with him, did you?" she asks. "He's, like, fifty, plus he has two kids who live in Michigan."

"No!" Santana says, and then smirks. "I just left him my business card for later."

Quinn pauses, and then eyes her sharply. "Oh my god," she says. "Tell me you're not actually a prostitute?"

Santana only smirks, raising her eyebrows.

"Santana!" Quinn hisses, leaning forward. "_Tell me_ you're not a prostitute!"

Santana holds the smirk for a few seconds longer, and then laughs. "Relax, Fabray," she says. "I promise I'm not making my money by being a call girl." She pauses, contemplating for a second, and says, "Maybe I should, though. I'd be damned expensive."

"That is not funny!" Quinn snaps. A beat of silence goes by, and then she ventures, "So how _are_ you making your money, then?"

"Oh, a little of this, a little of that," Santana says airily. Taking in Quinn's expression, she rolls her eyes and says, "I'm _temping_. God, Q. Are you legally required to think the worst of me at all times?"

Quinn huffs. "I learn from the past," she says.

"Fair," Santana acknowledges, and smirks. "Don't worry," she says. "As soon as I find a new band, I won't have to do these batshit jobs anymore."

"Good," Quinn says, "then maybe you can finally pay me back for all this freeloading you do."

Santana laughs. "As soon as I make my first ten million, I'll give you half," she promises, smirking.

"Whatever," Quinn says, half laughing. "What with property rights, you owe me at _least_ 90%."

"Fucking lawyer," Santana grumbles. She's quiet for a minute, and then she says, "So what are we doing tonight?"

Quinn raises an eyebrow. "I don't know. Whatever stupid TV show you want to watch, I guess?"

Santana frowns. "Fabray," she says slowly, "I don't know if you've realized this, but it's _Saturday night_. Don't you have friends or anything?"

"Yes!" Quinn snaps defensively. "Just – not the sort of friends that – that you hang out with on Saturday nights."

Santana blinks at her. "We're getting out of here," she declares. "Because I am _not_ spending my Saturday night watching _TV_."

"Oh?" Quinn says. "Fine. What's your brilliant plan then?"

Santana stares at her. "We're in New York City!" she says. "There's gotta be hundreds of places around here we could go."

"No," Quinn says. There are bars aplenty in her area, but she's never had the greatest experiences there. "Santana, _no_."

"Why?" Santana demands. She narrows her eyes. "You don't have some boring-ass boyfriend, do you?"

"No," Quinn snaps. "I don't have a boyfriend." She waits a beat, and then adds, "And neither do you." She's pretty sure of herself, but fishing for a little information can't hurt.

Santana gives her a look. "Why would I want a boyfriend when I can sleep with anyone I want?"

Quinn flounders for a moment, trying to come up with a good response. She fails.

"Okay," Santana says, standing up and digging through her duffel bag to pull out something that glitters. "It's settled. We're going out."

"Santana -,"

"Go and get changed," Santana orders. "I don't care, Fabray. Get your ass into your bedroom and find something sexy to wear."

Quinn sighs and obeys, going through the closet to find something appropriate. It's a while since she's been out properly, because mostly her job keeps her too tired to think of going out on the weekends. Plus, she's never been good at holding her liquor, and the nights usually end up as embarrassing half-memories to be made fun of later by people who call themselves her friends.

When she emerges from her bedroom, dressed in a tight, short black dress that ends at mid-thigh and shows off impressive cleavage, Santana looks her over with a grin.

"Damn, Fabray," she says. "You look so goodI almost want to rip that dress right off you."

Quinn blushes, vaguely uncomfortable. Santana's wearing a skirt almost as short as their old Cheerios skirts, and a beaded top that shows off her own cleavage. Quinn catches herself checking her out, and then has to consciously tear her eyes away.

It's been _way_ too long since she last got laid.

Santana's never been to New York, but she says she's heard of some places that sound good. They eventually manage to find their way to a dark, grungy looking club that charges way too much for entry. Quinn hands the money over without complaint, and follows Santana to the bar. In the past, she's usually frequented fancy cocktail bars, or clubs that played pop music, and this is completely different than what she's used to. She actually likes it, a little.

"Hey, Q," Santana mutters as they wait for their drinks. "Three o'clock, checking you out."

Quinn turns surreptitiously to her right, and sees the guy. He's tall, with stubble on his chin and bright blue eyes.

"No," she says, turning back to Santana.

"Why not?" Santana asks. "He's hot."

"Just – no," Quinn replies, feeling rattled.

Santana sighs. "Don't you _want_ to get laid?" she asks.

Quinn hesitates for a moment as they take their drinks and look for a seat. "You are not having sex on my couch," she warns. "I don't care what you do, as long as you go back to his place."

Santana snorts. "Because the couch and the sleeping bag are so hot?" she asks. "Of _course_ I'm going back to his place!"

"Well," Quinn says, taking a swig of her beer and feeling off-balance. "Good."

"Come on," Santana says, finishing her drink and then swigging the last of Quinn's. "Let's go dance."

They make their way onto the dance floor, and in what seems like seconds, Santana's grinding against some guy who looks totally wasted. Quinn hangs around dancing next to them until she sees his hand slip up the inside of Santana's skirt. She decides to gets herself another drink and heads over to the bar, perching on a stool by herself.

A few guys come by to try to pick her up, but Quinn steadfastly turns them all down. She doesn't know _why_ she's saying no; some of them are hot, and it's _really_ been a while since she's had any, and none of these guys are offering anything more than no-strings-attached one night stands. But she knocks them back one after another until finally Santana comes back to her.

"Where's your date?" Quinn asks.

Santana shrugs, reaching across Quinn to take a sip of her drink. "He went back to his girlfriend," she says breezily.

Quinn blinks. "Oh."

Santana sighs, and leans forward. "Listen, Q," she says, almost gently. "You're supposed to be having fun."

"I am!" Quinn says immediately.

Santana raises her eyebrows. Quinn sighs.

"I don't go out that much," she admits.

"Really," Santana deadpans. "I would never have guessed."

Quinn makes a face, and punches her in the arm. "Shut up, Santana," she says. "Listen, I just – I'm not so good at this, ok?"

Santana blinks. "Sex?"

"No, you ass," Quinn exclaims. "You know – dating. Relationships."

"Well, Q," Santana drawls, "I don't think you have to worry about any of these guys wanting _relationships_."

Quinn sighs. "I don't have good luck with guys," she says, more quietly. "Don't you remember what happened last time?"

Santana doesn't say anything for a minute, and Quinn knows she's thinking back to Quinn's last real relationship, when she was supposed to get married, and got left at the altar instead by a guy named Jeremy. She'd met him on what was supposed to be a one night stand, and it had lasted right up until the day they were supposed to walk down the aisle. He had claimed afterwards that Quinn had pushed him into the wedding, despite having spent weeks convincing Quinn that getting married was a good idea.

"Q," Santana says softly. "That was three years ago."

Quinn looks away.

"Alright," Santana says, "do you want me to take you home?"

"No," Quinn says immediately. "I'll go by myself. You can stay, have fun."

Santana pauses. "Are you sure?" she asks. "You only have one chance to change your mind."

"I'm sure," Quinn says. "Go on. Go find some poor unsuspecting guy and terrify the hell out of him."

Santana laughs. "Sure, Q. Night."

"Night," Quinn says, and pushes her way through the crowd to the door. When she glances back, Santana's already back on the dance floor with some guy's hands all over her ass.

Quinn smiles, and leaves.

She hears the door open at around twelve the next day, and Santana walks in, dressed in her clothes from last night, her hair mussed. There's a little smudged mascara on her cheek.

"Hey," Quinn says, looking up from the sandwich she's making. "How was it?"

Santana smirks at her.

"Good," Quinn says. "Which guy did you go home with; the one feeling you up when I left, or that one you were ogling at the bar?"

"The guy at the bar," Santana snorts, "but he was a total pussy. Got me home and then chickened out. So I fucked his roommate instead." She pauses and then adds, "Turned out to be his brother."

Quinn laughs despite herself. "I'm sure he was really pleased about that."

"Actually," Santana says, "he seemed to think it made me more awesome." She grins.

"Good," Quinn says again. She pauses, eyeing Santana. "You did use protection, right?"

Santana raises an eyebrow incredulously. "Well, no, I must have completely forgotten," she drawls sarcastically. "That reminds me, Q, I have a doctor's appointment this afternoon. He's going to check out those twelve STD's I seem to have picked up."

"Ok, fine," Quinn says quickly. "I only want to make sure you don't end up infecting my neighbors or anything."

"Whatever," Santana snorts. "I'm going to bed." She adds with a wink, "I didn't get much sleep."

Quinn rolls her eyes. "Sure," she says.

She goes out grocery shopping while Santana's sleeping, and she actually buys things like chips and beer, along with her usual healthy foods. Santana hasn't stirred by the time she gets back, and apparently she sleeps like the dead because she doesn't even twitch the whole time Quinn is putting stuff away, opening and closing cupboards and clanking jars and dishes.

When she finally wakes up, it's already dark, and Quinn is in the middle of heating up frozen lasagna and frying mushrooms for them both. Santana walks into the kitchen behind her, wearing sweatpants and a baggy T-shirt. She puts her hands on Quinn's waist, leaning over her to see what's in the pan.

"Smells good," she says.

"Thanks," Quinn says. She leans back into Santana almost automatically, and then stands up again. "Do you like mushroom?"

There's a pause. "I'll eat it," Santana says.

Quinn sighs. "Fine," she huffs. "More for me."

Santana chuckles, and perches on the bench next to her. "So," she says. "Have you heard from anyone else lately?"

By 'anyone else,' Santana means anyone from high school, and more specifically, Glee Club. The question is casual, but Santana's knuckles are white.

"Not very much," Quinn says, kind of apologetically. "Finn and Rachel still live a couple of blocks from here, but I don't see them that much. Puck moved to England around a year ago with that girl he met there. Uh…"

She closes her eyes, tries to remember all the kids who'd been in that room together. It shouldn't be this hard. It's only been seven years.

Rachel would have it in a flash, she knows, because even now, Rachel _still_ talks incessantly about Glee Club, even though she's given up her dream of being a Broadway star and is making a name for herself in the jazz piano scene instead. Rachel would remember all the songs they'd ever sung, and could probably perform all the choreography too.

For Quinn, the faces are all a blur, and the music has melded together into one song that sounds suspiciously like "Don't Stop Believing". And anyway, none of this matters, because there's only one person Santana is desperate to hear about, and Quinn hasn't heard from her in well over three years.

"That's all I know," she says carefully. She's quick enough to catch the flash of disappointment in Santana's eyes, and she studiously turns her attention back to the mushrooms.

"Have you?" she asks lightly. "Heard from anyone, I mean?"

"Nope," Santana shrugs, kicking her feet against the cupboards. "Guess no one remembers me."

Quinn pauses, and then, still staring hard into the pan, asks, "Not even Brittany?"

There's a silence. Quinn holds her breath.

"No," Santana says flatly. "Not in over a year."

"Oh," Quinn says carelessly. "Could you check the lasagna?"

Even now, she doesn't know exactly what Santana and Brittany's history is. They'd been so close in high school, but they'd never defined what they really _were, _and then after school was over they'd gone in completely different directions and, as far as she knew, stopped speaking to each other for some unknown reason.

Last she'd heard, Brittany was teaching at a dance studio in Boston and living with a boyfriend. She doesn't think she should mention that last part to Santana.

They eat their food in silence, and then watch three straight hours of _Grey's Anatomy_. When Quinn finally gets up to go to bed, worn out by all the crying she's done, she pauses at her bedroom door.

"I'll be at work tomorrow."

"Okay," Santana says. She's already focused on the episode that's just starting.

"All day," Quinn clarifies.

"Okay," Santana says again.

"Will you be alright?" Quinn asks.

Santana finally turns her attention away from the TV to glare at her. "What do you think I am, Q, a fucking five year old? No, you do _not_ need to put me in daycare."

"Okay, fine," Quinn shrugs. "Just – what will you do?"

"I'm sure I'll find something," Santana says. She turns back to the TV. "Night."

Quinn stares at her for a moment, and then shrugs. "Night."

They fall into a pattern over the next couple of weeks. Santana's always asleep when Quinn goes to work, and when Quinn gets home at night, Santana's waiting for her with boxes of take-out and whatever god-awful show she's decided they're watching that night. Quinn doesn't know what Santana does every day, but apparently it's enough to keep her amused, and the police haven't shown up at her door yet, so she doesn't care too much. Santana doesn't talk about it.

On Friday night, she crashes early, like normal, and just as she's going to bed, Santana comes into her room in a tiny red dress that shows off _everything_.

"_No_," Quinn says as soon as she sees her. "I don't care what you say, Santana, I'm in my pajamas already and I am _going to bed_."

"Ok," Santana shrugs. "Guess that saves me the trouble of inviting you."

Quinn blinks. "What?"

"I'm going out with Sarah," Santana says carelessly. "Can I borrow your eyeliner?"

Quinn narrows her eyes. "It's on the dresser. Who the fuck is Sarah?"

"The bass player from three bands ago," Santana says, as if it's obvious. She finds the eyeliner and steps close to Quinn's mirror as she puts it on. "She's playing here with her new piece of shit band, so I'm going to see them fail, and then afterwards we're hitting the town."

"Oh," Quinn says. She feels a little left out. "Fine. Have fun."

Santana pauses. "You can come," she offers. "I don't know if you'll like it that much."

Quinn raises her eyebrows. "S, I'm in my _pajamas_, remember?"

"Okay," Santana shrugs. "See you, Grandma."

When Quinn gets up late the next morning, she's surprised to find Santana in her sleeping bag on the couch, mouth open as she snores. Quinn sets about making pancakes for the both of them and, unsurprisingly given the smell that permeates the entire apartment, Santana appears just as they're almost ready.

"You're a freaking _goddess_, Q," she groans, seeing what Quinn's making.

"Sure," Quinn laughs, swatting her away from the pan. "You only love me for the food."

"I do not," Santana protests. "I love you for the free accommodation."

Quinn chuckles. "So how was your night?" she asks. "I thought you'd be out this morning."

Santana snorts. "Sarah's a fucking _bitch_," she says. "Now I remember why I quit that band."

Quinn raises an eyebrow, but Santana's already inhaling a pancake. They don't talk any more about it.

That night they go out again. It's a different club this time, but apart from the venue, it's practically the same as the first one. Some guy tries to pick both of them up at the same time, telling them they'd be awesome in a threesome. Santana looks at Quinn as though she's considering, and then she knees the guy in the balls. She smirks as he gets kicked out.

This time, Santana goes home with a guy who has the bluest eyes Quinn's ever seen.

Predictably, Quinn goes home alone.

She knows it's her own choice, but as she watches Santana walk out with her new conquest, she feels a little jealous.

The next week passes by much the same as the last one did. Santana's gotten really into _American Idol_, which seems to be on _all the freaking time_, so they watch it every night over dinner.

Quinn's been living in an empty, silent apartment for two years. Now, she finds herself spending her days at work actually looking forward to going home.

On Saturday, Quinn takes Santana around the city. Santana kind of hates it, and tells Quinn so unequivocally, but Quinn drags her around anyway. They end up on Broadway, staring at the theatres, and neither of them says anything for a while. Quinn's thinking about Glee Club, and how they all had secret dreams of one day starring here.

"It was Glee that made me drop out of college, you know," Santana says suddenly, voice uncharacteristically soft. "I was so high off our success, and I thought I could make a life out of fucking _music_." She laughs bitterly. "Look where that got me."

Quinn blinks, surprised. "Santana -," she starts, but Santana has turned away, and is already heading in the opposite direction. They don't talk all the way home.

That evening, when Quinn asks where Santana wants to go that night, Santana eyes her for a minute.

"Are you planning on finally getting laid tonight?" she asks bluntly.

"Santana!" Quinn flushes. "I don't know. Probably not."

"_Probably _not, or _actually_ not?" Santana presses.

"I don't _know_," Quinn says, shifting uncomfortably. "Actually not, I guess. Why do you care?"

"I've got the perfect place."

When they enter the bar that night, Quinn looks around curiously, before raising her eyebrows. She follows Santana over to the bar, eyeing the patrons.

"Hey, S," she mutters under her breath. "You do know we're at a lesbian bar, right?"

Santana gives her a _well duh_ look. "Yeah," she says.

Quinn blinks. "Okay," she shrugs. She accepts the drink Santana hands her. "Cool."

They sit down in a booth, sipping at their drinks. Santana's on the outside edge, and it doesn't take long before a pretty brunette girl is asking her to dance. Santana turns her down.

"Why'd you say no?" Quinn asks when the girl has gone back to her friends. "She was pretty."

Santana shrugs. "I didn't like her nose," she says.

Quinn rolls her eyes.

Only moments later, however, Santana is dancing with another girl. This girl is blonde, and Quinn's first thought when she sees them together is that Santana's trying to pretend that she's Brittany. She's chosen badly, because the girl is shorter than Brittany, but they're kissing on the dance floor, and Quinn shrugs and looks away.

A couple of girls come by to talk to her, and Quinn actually dances with one of them. When the girl kisses her, she kisses back, but she draws away before the girl has a chance to get any more serious.

"Having fun, Q?" Santana asks when Quinn's retreated back to the booth.

Quinn shoots her a look.

"Anyway," Santana says. "I'm leaving with Becca." She motions to the blonde girl. "You okay?"

"Sure," Quinn says and gives Santana her best smile. "Have fun."

She watches them walk out of the bar, and instead of going straight home, she nurses her drink for another half hour, watching people around her. She can't get the image of Santana walking off with that girl out of her head. She doesn't know why, but all of a sudden, she's pissed off.

Santana doesn't come home at all the next day. She shows up late on Monday night, wearing clothes that aren't hers.

"Where have you been?" Quinn asks, lips pursed.

Santana winks. "Becca has _amazing_ stamina," she drawls.

"Oh," Quinn says icily. "Right."

Santana frowns. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing!" Quinn says emphatically. "Nothing's wrong."

Santana takes a step closer. "Well, something's eating you," she points out. "What did I do?"

"Well, I just -," Quinn pauses. "You know, it's just common courtesy to tell someone if you're not coming home for a while. I didn't know where you were! I ordered take-out for you last night!"

Santana doesn't say anything for a moment. "Well, I'm sorry," she says. "But you ate it, right?"

"Yes!" Quinn shouts. "And it was a burger, so I _ruined_ my eating plan and I couldn't go to the gym because I don't have a fucking membership because I'm stuck in this _fucking_ city with no real friends and a fucking _useless _job!"

She pauses for breath. She feels a little dizzy.

"Whoa," Santana says, stepping back. "That's some serious angst you've got going on there."

"What's _wrong_ with you!" Quinn demands. "You just drift around and use other people! You're so fucking _scared_ of what a real life could be like you don't even try to have one! Where's the band you're going to join? Where's Brittany? You don't know, do you? You _don't fucking know_!"

There's a silence for a moment after that, and then Santana's face hardens. "Fuck you, Fabray," she says quietly. "You don't get it at all."

Quinn shakes her head, hands balled into fists. "I'm going to bed," she spits, and storms into her bedroom.

The anger cools off after a while, leaving her feeling empty. She doesn't even know why it sprung up in the first place. She falls asleep, exhausted, around midnight.

In the morning, Santana is there as always, sprawled out on the couch. Quinn makes extra noise as she gets breakfast, but Santana doesn't move.

Their basic routine is the same as always, but they don't talk for a few days. Santana still has food waiting when she gets home, and they watch _American Idol_ and whatever happens to be after that until Quinn goes to bed. They're not angry at each other anymore, but it's easier just to ignore the other's presence.

On Thursday, Quinn fakes a headache and leaves work early. When she gets home, she pauses outside of her door, because there's music coming from inside that Quinn doesn't recognize. For one horrible moment, she's worried that Santana's got someone in there, and she's hearing mood music, but it's actually an acoustic guitar, and she can hear humming, and she recognizes Santana's voice.

When she opens the door, Santana looks up as if she's been caught doing something dirty.

"Q," she says, and scrambles off the couch. "I didn't think you be home so early."

Quinn takes in the scene. The guitar case, which has been standing untouched in the corner since Santana got here, is open on the floor, and Santana's holding the guitar by the neck as she stands there in front of Quinn, looking awkward.

"Keep playing," Quinn says softly. "It sounded nice."

Santana looks surprised, but she sits down again, resting the guitar on her knee, and strums a few chords.

"Sing me something?" Quinn asks. Santana hesitates a second, and then complies, and Quinn moves around the apartment, stripping off her outer layers and grabbing a glass of juice as she listens. Santana's singing _You and Me_ by Lifehouse, and by the time she's finished, Quinn's sitting on the arm of the couch, leaning her head against the back. Santana's voice is sweeter than she remembers.

There's a silence after Santana finishes playing, and then she says quietly, "I was thinking of giving up the band thing. I mean, it's getting me fucking _nowhere_, and I thought, you know. I might actually try to have a _normal_ life or something."

Quinn stares. "You?" she asks. "_Normal_?"

"Fuck off, Fabray," Santana says, but she's smiling a little. "I could find a real job where I don't have to travel around all the time. And, you know. _Settle down_."

"Oh," Quinn says. "Ok." She's a little weirded out by the conversation, because she and Santana have never been the sort of friends who have D&M's, and yet here they are. "Well that's… good. That's good, right?"

"Yeah," Santana says. She doesn't look at Quinn as she adds, "I'm not hung up on Brittany, you know."

"Oh," Quinn says again. "Well, no. Of course you aren't. Anyone can see that."

"Shut up, I mean it!" Santana says. "We were – me and Britt were a long time ago. It doesn't matter now."

Quinn nods carefully. "Okay," she says.

"Yeah," Santana says. "So, wanna see if George has been kicked off _American Idol_ yet?"

On Saturday morning, Quinn is woken up obscenely early by her phone ringing. When she answers, groggily, she's not at all surprised to find that it's Rachel on the other end.

Because she's half asleep, she blurts out the fact that Santana is living with her, and then nods along to whatever Rachel says, desperate to do anything that will get Rachel off the phone and allow her to go back to sleep. She ends up agreeing to dinner with Rachel and Finn that night, and to bring Santana along, of course. She doesn't realize what she's done until she wakes up several hours later.

Santana is not pleased when Quinn tells her what they're doing that night, but Quinn gives her the option of either going or calling Rachel herself to cancel. Santana glares at her, but she finally agrees. Then she dresses herself in the most revealing outfit she can find.

"Santana!" Quinn gasps when she sees it. "You can't wear that! We're going to a fancy restaurant, and you look like a hooker!"

"Good," Santana smirks. "Maybe Rachel will be so embarrassed she'll go straight home."

Quinn takes a deep, steadying breath, and then summons all of her Head Bitch In Charge persona to make Santana change into something more appropriate. It works, but they end up being fifteen minutes late.

When they finally get there, they spot Rachel and Finn immediately. They're sitting at a table in the window, and Rachel is looking at her watch impatiently. When she sees them, her face lights up.

She hugs them both, which Santana thankfully bears without saying anything. She does most of the talking, but Quinn doesn't really pay attention to what she's saying. Rachel's got a diamond ring on her finger which she'd shown them almost the second they walked in, and throughout the meal, she's in constant physical contact with Finn. They hold hands until the meals come, and then they feed each other playfully, leaning in to kiss one another almost every thirty seconds. Finn throws her looks of adoration at every opportunity, and doesn't say much to either Quinn or Santana. Quinn watches the exchange with disgust, and then she notices Santana watching it too. Interestingly, she doesn't look nauseated _all_ the time. At points, she just looks sad.

When the dinner is finally over, Rachel and Finn depart in a taxi, leaving Quinn and Santana standing outside the restaurant.

"Oh my _god_," Santana says as soon as the taxi drives away. "I need to shoot myself in the fucking _face_."

"I told you," Quinn says, even though she didn't. "They're disgusting."

Santana sighs determinedly. "Come on, Q," she says. "We need some goddamned alcohol."

They end up in the closest bar, and do shots of tequila. It makes Quinn gag, which makes Santana laugh, and they both get drunk pretty quickly.

"They're just so – I don't know," Santana slurs after her sixth or seventh shot. "So _happy_." She picks at her sleeve. "Why don't I have that?"

"We're freaking _failures_," Quinn agrees, and sways on her seat as the world spins around her. "I'm _alone_."

Santana nods and signals to the bartender to line up another shot. "Here's to singledom," she says, and tosses it back.

"May we have hundreds of cats," Quinn says, and copies her.

The rest of the night is kind of a blur, but for the next few days, every time she thinks about salt, she has the weirdest sense of déjà vu.

In the morning, she wakes up with her head pounding. She and Santana are both sprawled on the top of her bed, still in their outfits from last night. Santana even still has her shoes on.

Quinn takes some panadol, and then leaves two pills and a glass of water next to Santana's side of the bed. She passes out again for several more hours.

Another working week goes by without much changing. Santana asks to borrow her laptop one day, and when Quinn comes home, there are several job ads open on the screen. Quinn doesn't say anything about it, and neither does Santana.

On Saturday, they go to Central Park, because Quinn thinks Santana has to at least know the tourist places in New York if she's planning on living there. They end up strolling through the park, enjoying the weak winter sun, and Santana buys her a candy apple.

"I feel like we should be holding hands or something," Quinn jokes.

Santana smirks. "You want to?" she asks back, her tone showing that she's joking, but she actually reaches out and grabs Quinn's hand. Quinn holds on without looking at her, and they hold hands all the way through the park, right up until they start to walk home again and Santana lets go.

Quinn's hand feels cold. She shoves it in her pocket, and tries not to notice.

When they go out that night, Santana dances with a couple of guys, but she comes back to Quinn before midnight and says, "Come on, let's get out of here."

Quinn eyes her, startled, but Santana only raises her eyebrows. Her hand brushes against Quinn's on the way out.

"We can watch something else, you know," Santana says on Monday night over pizza, when Quinn flicks on _American Idol_. "You can choose."

They're sitting on the couch together as they eat. Their thighs are touching.

"I like it," Quinn says. "It's way better than hearing _you_ sing."

Santana glares. "Bitch," she mutters, but there's no venom in it. Quinn only smiles.

On Wednesday night, she finds Santana actually _cooking_ when she gets home from work.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Quinn demands, staring.

"I'm _cooking,_ Q, are you fucking blind?" Santana asks. "I can't look another piece of goddamned pepperoni in the face."

Quinn stares at the black mess Santana is poking at in the frying pan. "What is it?" she asks.

Santana scowls. "Cheese sandwiches," she says. "I don't know how to fry anything else."

"Oh," Quinn says, staring at the sandwiches. Their outsides are completely black.

"Do you think they're ready?" Santana asks.

"Sure," Quinn says brightly. "Let's eat."

Santana puts the sandwiches on plates, and hands one to Quinn. Quinn stares at it, and take an apprehensive bite.

"Well?" Santana demands.

Quinn tries to swallow, and fails. "It's – it's good," she says, her mouth full.

Santana eyes her suspiciously, and takes a bite of her own sandwich. She gags. "Oh my god," she says. "Q!"

"What?" Quinn says defensively, but she can't help the smile on her face. "It isn't _my _fault you burned the shit out of them!"

"Why didn't you say?" Santana shouts. She spits her mouthful of sandwich into the sink, and glares as Quinn bursts into laughter. "I hate you," she grumbles, reaching for the phone. "You want pizza or Chinese?"

"What do you want to do tonight?" Santana asks on Saturday afternoon.

Quinn looks up from her laptop in surprise. "I don't know," she says. "Don't you have somewhere you want to drag me to?"

Santana shrugs. "You can choose this time," she says.

They go to a cocktail bar that Quinn's been to before with people from work. Santana complains about the prices and Quinn has to agree with her when she points out – loudly – that the waiters seem to think they're gods of the hospitality industry.

After one drink, they go to the bar practically next door, where they can get cheap drinks and sit around without feeling like they're being judged.

They nurse their drinks this time, so the buzz hits them slowly. Quinn turns down the couple of guys who look her way, and surprisingly Santana does the same.

"What?" she asks when Quinn raises her eyebrows questioningly. "I don't sleep with _everyone_ who looks at me, you know."

"Tell that to our entire year at high school," Quinn snorts.

Santana makes a face at her.

They manage to spend a couple of hours talking about nothing in particular, and at one thirty, Quinn decides it's time to go home. She holds out a hand to Santana as they stand up, intending to lead her through the crowd, but Santana takes it and pulls her closer, and then she leans forward and kisses her.

Quinn stand still, frozen in surprise, but it's actually kind of nice, and she finds herself kissing back. Santana pulls away after a minute.

"What are you waiting for, Q," she asks, when Quinn stands still. "Let's go."

There's an actual smile on her lips as she looks at Quinn, and she keeps holding her hand as they walk out. She doesn't let it go all the way home.

They don't mention the kiss all the next day, but Santana kind of smiles a lot. Quinn's not surprised, even though it's Santana, because she can't help smiling too.

When Quinn gets home on Monday night, Santana's waiting with take-out boxes as usual, and she kisses Quinn hello. It's a quick kiss, no tongue or passion, but it leaves Quinn feeling warm.

She stays up later that night, wondering whether she should make another move, but she goes to bed around eleven thirty, and Santana just says goodnight and gets into her sleeping bag.

The next night, the welcome home kiss is a little longer. Santana leans on her when they watch _American Idol_.

On Wednesday morning, Santana wakes up while Quinn is getting breakfast, and she gives her a goodbye kiss as well. That night, Quinn's kiss hello goes on for longer, and later, while they're cleaning up after dinner, she finds herself being kissed again. This time, it lasts for minutes.

Afterwards, they actually snuggle on the couch.

On Friday nights, Quinn usually comes home from work and falls into bed, exhausted from a week of work. This week, though, she hesitantly suggests going out, and Santana grins at her.

"I fucking _knew_ it," she crows. "You _love_ going to bars, you sneaky bitch. You were just trying to milk me for free drinks, weren't you?"

"Yeah," Quinn says dryly. "You caught me."

She hits Santana's shoulder. Santana retaliates by flicking her in the ear, and smirking when she whines.

"So where are we going?"

They go back to that first club that they'd gone to when Santana turned up unexpectedly on her doorstep. Santana orders them shots to start with, but then they nurse beers for a while.

"You want to dance?" Santana asks after their fourth round.

Quinn shrugs. "Ok."

She's half expecting Santana to latch onto the nearest guy and start showing him why he should take her home with him. She's waiting for it to happen, but at the same time she's terrified of it, because she's _really_ liked the way they've been this week. If she has to spend tomorrow morning listening to Santana talk about having sex with some random guy, it's going to hurt a lot.

But Santana stays close to Quinn, and doesn't pay any attention to the guys around. After a few songs, she places her hands on Quinn's hips.

Quinn feels her mouth go dry. Tentatively, she puts her arms around Santana.

It takes two more songs for Santana to kiss her.

It takes another half hour of dancing, bodies bumping together, before she suggests that maybe they should go home.

They're quiet on the way back to Quinn's apartment, but they're holding hands, and it makes Quinn warm. She's more turned on that she'd like to admit, and she's half scared that this is all going to end when they get back. She unlocks the door with a hand that shakes.

Santana pauses when they get inside, and Quinn turns around when she realizes that Santana's no longer beside her. She finds her standing next to the couch, hovering uncertainly near her sleeping bag. Her eyes are questioning as she looks at Quinn.

Quinn summons up her courage. "What are you doing, loser?" she asks, trying to sound confident. "My bedroom is _this way_."

Santana smirks.

There's a lot of kissing to start with, just standing in the middle of Quinn's floor, fully clothed, hands by their sides, kissing. It's kind of like the kisses they've been sharing all week, except this time they're both a little rougher, kissing with more intent. Quinn finally breaks away to slide her hands up Santana's top and drag it over her head, leaving her in a bra and a very short skirt.

Quinn licks her lips. When they were teenagers and on the Cheerios together, she'd seen Santana practically naked almost every day. Back then, she'd been jealous of the other girl's seemingly perfect body, with tan skin and toned muscle.

Seven years on, she looks even better.

Quinn brings her mouth back to Santana's, kissing hungrily, and groping for the catch of her bra. She feels Santana laugh into her mouth.

"You're even worse at this than guys are," she says, and reaches around to undo the hook herself. She pulls Quinn forward again, pulling her dress up and off, until she's standing there in her underwear, and a pair of high heels.

"We should be taping this," Santana breathes into her ear. "We could make millions."

Quinn shivers. "Shut up, she murmurs, and tugs ineffectually at Santana's skirt. "Get naked."

Santana obliges, stripping off her skirt and panties until she's completely naked. She stands in front of Quinn, looking totally comfortable.

Quinn licks suddenly dry lips as she looks her over.

"Santana," she whispers. "_Fuck_, Santana."

Santana grabs her hand, pulling her towards the bed. Effortlessly, she unhooks Quinn's bra and pulls it off her, before flinging it away. Quinn pushes off her panties without having to be asked. Santana grins at the heels she's still wearing.

"Keeping those on?" she asks. "They are pretty hot."

Quinn's too turned on to glare, and the face she makes causes Santana to laugh.

"Come here," Santana says, pulling her down so they sit on the bed. She pulls Quinn's legs up so her feet are on the blankets. "Let me take these off for you."

She takes off the shoes and then lets her hands linger, running up Quinn's legs. Somehow, she's hovering on top of Quinn, who's half leaning back on the bed. It only takes seconds until Santana's back kissing her again, leaning down so their bodies press together.

Quinn shivers.

She's actually never slept with another girl before, and she's a little awkward and clumsy, but she work her hands downwards and finds wet heat, and after a few minutes she finds the rhythm at last. When Santana comes, she calls out Quinn's name.

She's inordinately relieved that Santana didn't say 'Brittany'.

Santana has no such inexperience, and Quinn's arching off the bed before she knows what's hit her. She doesn't call Santana's name, because she can't remember it, or anything else for that matter, but when she comes back to herself, she pants, "Santana," over and over. They fall asleep together, still tangled up in each other.

Quinn dreams of warmth.

When Quinn wakes up in the morning, she's alone in the bed. For a second, she can't remember why that's disappointing, and then the events of last night come back to her. She turns over and stares at the empty space for minutes, hoping Santana will come back in with coffee or doughnuts or something.

She doesn't.

After an hour, Quinn gets out of bed and goes into the living room. Santana's stuff is still in the corner, and the sleeping bag is still on the couch, which gives her hope, but hours pass and she still doesn't appear.

It's Saturday night. For the first time in a while, Quinn spends it at home.

On Sunday night, she watches _American Idol_ alone.

Santana's still not there on Monday night, or Tuesday night, or even Wednesday. Then, on Thursday, Quinn pushes the door open, fully expecting the apartment to be empty, and finds Santana, sitting in front of a mountain of take-out boxes.

"I wasn't sure what you wanted," Santana says, as Quinn stands there and stares. "So I got everything."

Quinn turns away and puts her things down, trying to calm her heartbeat. Her lips are pressed together in a thin line.

"Where were you?" she asks tightly, without looking at her.

"I went to see Brittany," Santana says quietly.

Quinn's eyes widen. "You went to see _Brittany_?" she repeats, voice dangerous. Her fingers tighten around the keys she's still holding.

She hears the scrape of a chair, and feels Santana come up behind her. "I needed to see her," Santana says.

"So, what?" Quinn half shouts. She turns around to face Santana. "So you could tell her how much you love her? How you had sex with me because I'm blonde and you thought I could replace her?"

"No!" Santana says. "Jesus, _fuck_, Quinn! Of course that's not why I went!"

"Yeah?" Quinn shouts. "Then why, Santana? We _slept together_, remember? And then you _disappear_ to see your fucking _ex-girlfriend_ without even telling me? What am I _supposed_ to think, S?"

"Maybe you could fucking trust me!" Santana retorts angrily. "I didn't go over there to try and get her back! I didn't even go to have sex with her!"

"Then _why did you go_?" Quinn demands.

"Because I had to show myself that I was fucking _over her_, ok?" Santana shouts. "For some reason I thought I couldn't move on until I saw her and figured that shit out! And I needed to remember that it's ok that I'm thinking about someone else now!"

There's a ringing silence after she finishes. Quinn exhales, and sits heavily on the arm of the couch.

"So, how was she?" she whispers.

"She's _married_," Santana says, letting out a short, bitter laugh. "To some douchebag. But she's still teaching dance."

"Oh," Quinn says, somewhat shakily.

Santana grabs her chin, forcing Quinn to look at her. "It's okay, Q," she says. "I'm okay. I'm over that shit. There's – there are other people now."

Quinn swallows. "Okay," she says. She hesitates, asking a question with her eyes, and Santana's lips slam into her own, effectively answering her.

"Okay," Quinn whispers again, when Santana steps back. "I guess it's okay."

The pattern doesn't change so much, except that it involves more kissing, and more cuddling, and more sex. They go out on Saturday nights, and they come home together, and wake up in the morning together.

The sleeping bag is still present on the couch, but it hasn't been slept in for a while.

Some Saturdays later, they go to a bar around the corner, get drunk and come home. They have drunk, sloppy sex, half laughing all the way through it because Santana's keeping a running commentary until Quinn shuts her up with her fingers.

Afterwards, when they're lying in hazy blissfulness and Santana is tucked into the crook of Quinn's neck, Santana says, "So, are we going steady?"

Quinn pulls back a little. "What do you mean?"

Santana frowns. "Duh, Q," she says. "I mean, are we official? Are you my girlfriend?"

Quinn stares, her heart rate picking up. "I – I don't know," she mutters. "We're – whatever."

She tries to lie back down again, but Santana sits up. "We're 'whatever'?" she repeats. "Are you fucking serious, Fabray?"

"What?" Quinn asks heatedly, sitting up as well. "What do you want me to say, Santana? This isn't – this is – I don't _know_ what this is!"

"What do you want it to be?" Santana demands. "Am I just a good fuck?"

Quinn flinches. "Don't say that," she mutters.

"Why not?" Santana demands. "Am I your girlfriend or not?"

Quinn looks away.

"Okay," Santana says, getting out of bed. She pulls on her hastily discarded clothes. "See you later, Q."

"Santana, wait!" Quinn calls, jumping out of bed, but by the time she has clothes on, Santana's already disappeared.

Quinn doesn't see her again until late the next night. She's rolling up Santana's sleeping bag when she hears the door open and close, and she looks up to find Santana leaning against it, arms crossed over her chest.

"Kicking me out, Fabray?" she asks, tone cold. "I would say I'm surprised, but – well."

Quinn tucks the sleeping under her arm. "You don't need this anymore," she says.

Santana tilts her head to the side. "What do you mean?" she asks cautiously.

"Well," Quinn says, heart hammering. "_My girlfriend_ doesn't sleep on the couch."

Santana pauses, and then takes a tentative step forward. "Really," she says.

"Yeah," Quinn nods. "Come on loser. Our bedroom's _that way_."

Santana pauses a minute, and then kisses her, sweet and soft and unhurried, as though she could do this all night. They lean into each other, and Santana grins when she pulls back.

That night, when they go to sleep, curled up together in her bed, Quinn puts her arms around Santana, her head on her shoulder.

"Stop being a fucking sap, Q," Santana whispers into the darkness. "Go to sleep."

Quinn smiles.


End file.
